


Internship

by stunrunner



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:50:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1504277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stunrunner/pseuds/stunrunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bureaucrat stands in his office. It just so happens that today, the 12th of June, is the anniversary of the day this bureaucrat began working for Skaia Corp. Though it was twenty years ago he was given the job, it is only today that he will be given an intern!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Internship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Novaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novaz/gifts).



Through the open door of his office, Mr. Egbert could see down the cubicle aisle to the group of gangly youths standing in a herd by the reception desk, fidgeting uncomfortably and tugging at blouses or ties that had clearly never been worn before today. One young man in a too-large red dress shirt had furrowed his thick black eyebrows as he quietly but enthusiastically gave the others a last-minute pep talk. From what Mr. Egbert could tell, most of them weren't paying any attention to him.

The receptionist returned to her desk and said something Mr. Egbert couldn't hear before gently guiding them in an awkward shuffle to a conference room for orientation. He smiled. John was almost old enough to start looking for internships, taking the first step into the professional world. He doubted John would ever be interested in working somewhere as serious as Skaia Corp what with all that harlequin business, but clowns didn't exactly take apprentices. Maybe he could convince the boy that it would look good on his resume; he wasn't sure John even knew what he did for a living and it would be nice to bond with him over a shared professional experience.

He pushed thoughts of his son to the back of his mind and resumed working on a spreadsheet. The numbers became his world as he carefully added, cross-referenced, and sorted, the office fading away into the background. He typed a few keystrokes into the computer, and a warehouse seven states away made a small change in its inventory order that pushed the company one step closer to being fully optimized. He ignored the chime of a few incoming emails as he typed and calculated. The power the numbers held to effect real world change always fascinated him. It was part of why he enjoyed baking so much; it was the most precisely mathematical form of cooking, balancing ingredients in delicate ratios in a specific sequence to create an optimally delicious product. (Though it certainly didn't hurt that the promise of cake worked wonders for the behavior of a certain energetic young lad.)

A hesitant rap of knuckles on his office's door frame snapped him out of his trance. “Mr. Egbert?” the receptionist said. “I've got your intern here.”

He frowned. “What intern? Gina never said I was--”

The receptionist shrugged. “HR told me he's yours,” she said. “That's all I know.” She stepped aside and half-guided, half-yanked a tall young man from behind her. “They're only here for the week anyway, so just make him do some filing or something if you don't need the help.” She left with a wave and the polite smile of a woman with better things to do. “Have fun.”

Mr. Egbert stifled a desire to reprimand her for her bluntness, but the boy didn't seem offended. He just stood where the receptionist had placed him, waiting patiently with his hands in his pockets and a glazed stare from half-lidded eyes that were further hidden by a fringe of hair, spilling out of the curly mass that looked like it hadn't been brushed in years onto his forehead. 

Mr. Egbert rose from behind his desk and offered a hand. “Hello,” he said, “I'm Mr. Egbert.”

The boy's dazed smile widened. “Well shit,” he said, “it is a motherfuckin' pleasure to all up and meet you, Mr. Egbert. I'm Gamzee.” He took the proffered hand in a weak, floppy grip and pumped it a few too many times.

Mr. Egbert blinked. “Young man, that language is entirely inappropriate for a professional environment,” he said, shocked.

Gamzee grinned. “Sorry, my raddest new bro,” he apologized. “I ain't never been in a moth--” he stopped abruptly and cleared his throat of the unspoken profanity “--in an office before. It's some kinda mo—uh, miracle that I even managed to get all up and in this program.”

“It's fine,” Mr. Egbert said, reaching for the phone. “I'll just call Gina and get her to reassign you somewhere--”

Gamzee put a hand on the phone receiver. “Please, br—Mr. Egbert,” he said quietly. “I've been...I've messed up a lot, and I don't have a lot of bit—people to count on. I can't mess this up too.”

Mr. Egbert considered. Gamzee practically vibrated with earnestness, but Mr. Egbert couldn't help but notice all the little things: his rat's nest of hair, the edges of tattoos poking out of his collar and shirtsleeves, the slacks three sizes too big belted to gather in huge pleats at the waist. This office was serious business, and Gamzee, frankly, was not.

But as he opened his mouth to tell him that, the boy leaned forward, hanging on his words and staring up at him with those wide, innocent eyes, and in that moment of anticipation he looked too much like John for Mr. Egbert to deny him anything. He sighed. “Alright.”

Gamzee beamed, and opened his mouth to respond, but Mr. Egbert feared any celebratory exclamation would be as profanity-laden as his introduction. “But,” he interrupted the young man, “we need to go over some rules first.”

Gamzee fumbled in one of his large pants pockets to retrieve a notepad and pen. “Go on ahead and lay those rules on me, Mr. E.”

“First: you will dress in a manner that is appropriate for a professional environment. That means ironing your shirt and slacks, wearing a tie, and grooming your hair.”

Gamzee nodded enthusiastically. A small point of tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he rapidly scribbled down notes. 

“Second: you will not use any profanity while in the office.”

“Right on, right on, clown got to turn it down.”

Mr. Egbert suppressed a small smile. John would probably like this kid, between the spaced-out perma-grin and the verbal eccentricity. “Quite. Third: you will refer to me as Mr. Egbert. And fourth,” he said, softening his tone slightly, “if you have a question about our office or any tasks, please do ask. I'm not usually a mentor in the internship program, but I do know that the point is to help give you young folk some useful office experience. I'd be happy to do what I can to facilitate that.”

Gamzee finished writing—Mr. Egbert hoped he was a better typist than longhand writer, as he caught a glance of the wild scrawlings on the pad—and capped his pen. “Thanks, Mr. Egbert,” he said, beaming. “I promise you won't get to regrettin' all givin' me a chance.”

“I sure hope so, son. So, let's get started. Have you ever used Excel before?”

***

Mr. Egbert was surprised by how little experience Gamzee had with computers, paperwork, or even more basic things like calling someone on the phone. But that first day, the young man surprised him by pursuing each task with a relentless determination. He asked questions about everything, from the filing system to how to format a report to even bizarre, unrelated topics that left the older man speechless and pondering.

When five o'clock rolled around, Mr. Egbert clapped Gamzee heartily on the shoulder. “You did well today,” he said. “I'll see you bright and early tomorrow, and I expect this”--he gestured to Gamzee's hair and shirt--”to be taken care of.”

“You got it, Mr. Egbert,” Gamzee said with a lazy salute. “Gonna be all kinds of decked out.”

***

On Tuesday, Gamzee was indeed more appropriately attired. His tie didn't match his shirt, which had a broad scorch-mark across one of the sleeves; his hair looked several inches longer now that it had been combed out properly, and his pants were only slightly closer to his narrow hips, but overall it was clear that he'd at least tried to stick to Mr. Egbert's guidelines, likely marshalling limited resources and a borrowed wardrobe to do so.

“Ready for moth—uh, I mean, ready for duty, sir,” Gamzee said, beaming. He was obviously quite proud of his “professional” ensemble.

Mr. Egbert nodded. “Excellent, Gamzee,” he said. “I am so proud of you for your improvement.”

Gamzee shoved his hands in his pockets. “Ain't no thing, Mr. E. So what's all up and on the schedule for this fine day?”

“Well, since computers aren't your specialty, I thought we'd try something a little different,” Mr. Egbert said. He took his coat from the hook on the wall. “We're going to go make some sales calls.”

Gamzee hesitated. “Talkin' to some dudes about our product that is rad as can m—as can be? Mr. E., I know I'm all sorts of behind the curve on this wicked technology miracle, but...don't be all up and layin' the easy business on me just 'cause—“

Mr. Egbert chuckled. “I'm sure the higher-ups would appreciate your brand loyalty, my boy, but sales is indeed a legitimate corporate field, and perhaps one of the more difficult ones. I transferred out of sales years ago for a more accounting-based position, but I think you might have a particular aptitude for it. Call it a hunch.”

Gamzee grinned at the praise. “If you say so, Mr. E.”

***

Mr. Egbert's hunch paid off. For their first client, Gamzee simply observed while Mr. Egbert handled the client entirely. He tried to do so in the most informal way possible in order to serve as a model for his young protegee, even though he know his most casual manner was still far above Gamzee's professional capabilities. On the second call, Gamzee and Mr. Egbert worked together, alternating working the client, who seemed to be almost amused at their “professional salesman, enthusiastic amateur” routine. On the third call, Mr. Egbert let Gamzee take the lead entirely, stepping in only to offer the occasional convincing statistic or clarification. All three calls resulted in sales for Skaia Corp, as did most of the visits they made over the next few days. Gamzee's casual charm made for an instant connection with their customers, many of whom were folks from neighboring rural communities with an innate suspicion of anything wearing a suit.

“What did I tell you? You're a natural.” Mr. Egbert ruffled Gamzee's hair affectionately as they drove back to Skaia Corp on Friday afternoon.

Gamzee positively glowed. “Thanks, Mr. E.,” he said. “It's...it's nice to finally have someone think I'm the wicked bi—uh, that I'm good at somethin'.”

“It doesn't matter what I believe, son—look at the sales.” Mr. Egbert nudged the clipboard in his direction, tapping emphatically at the numbers showing the young man's sales this week. “Those numbers don't lie.”

Gamzee beamed. They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, before he broke it again. “Mr. E.?”

“Yes, Gamzee?”

There was a moment of silence while the young man gathered his thoughts. “Thanks,” he finally said. “I know you were ready to bounce me all back to the warehouse or somethin' when I up and made a fool outta myself that first day but... Thanks for thinkin' that, you know, maybe I could make somethin' of myself.”

“You should be proud of your work this week. In fact,” Mr. Egbert pondered, “Tim in marketing has been looking for a part-time assistant for the rest of the summer. The work won't be exactly the same as what we did this week, but if you're interested I could put in a good word for you.”

Gamzee's eyes widened. “Really? Thanks, Mr. E., that would be wicked.”

Mr. Egbert smiled. “'Wicked' indeed.”


End file.
